Pat didn’t get the pronunciation right. The r needed to roll deeper in her throat, the a’s needed to be more Spanish than English. Slowly, he climbed upright. He hopped to the sink for some water, steadying himself with a still-shaky hand.
“He said all that?” Mom said. “Chatty. I’ve never heard him talk in his sleep.”
“Strange.” Pat tried too hard to sound innocent. She hadn’t nailed that part of acting yet. Nolan did a better job. No one suspected window dressing.
“Ask him about it, not me, all right?”
Nolan heard Pat thump back into the couch pillows. “I think he’s having seizures again,” she said then. “This morning it took, like, five minutes to wake him up. He was super weird after.”
Mom sighed. “We’ll talk to him.”
26
Captain Olym had six servants on the farm, and two of them prepared dinner: roasted duck and spiced patties of roots, carrots, and onions. The servants ate elsewhere. “She stays with me,” Cilla had said about Amara.
“Ah,” Olym said. “Of course. The others would notice the length of her hair.”
“That, too,” Cilla said.
As they wolfed down their evening meals, Amara couldn’t keep her eyes off Cilla, for so many reasons: to stare at those fennel-tinged lips; because Nolan might still possess her at any moment; because the duck contained bones that might injure her. Amara should’ve checked. Jorn would’ve hit her for her negligence.
“You have a lovely farm,” Cilla said eventually. “Do you have regular staff? I understand it’s unusual to have servants in permanent employment outside of palaces.”
The distant sound of the servants across the house buzzed in the background—laughter, the clinking of their plates. Which room were they in? Olym had started to escort Amara there before Cilla stopped her. I need this one. I like this one. Forget the others.
“It is. Well, it used to be. Consider it the ministers’ approach to problem-solving.” Olym smiled wryly.
Amara kept her eyes trained on her plate.
“I used to run the farm with my family and some farm-hands,” Olym continued. “I had a partner, two children. My younger daughter is apprenticing with the millwright. My partner and older daughter died in a flood.” Bitterness laced every word. “Three floods in ten years in Roerte alone. Two dune fires that lasted for days. And the ministers still claim it’s not the fault of their magic.”
“I’m sorry for your losses,” Cilla said.
“And I for yours. I wouldn’t have accepted the ministers’ charity normally,” Olym said, probably feeling the need to explain, “but after my workers left for Bedam to find a place on trading ships, and after the damage the third flood did to my farm …
“My partner came from a sailing family. His mother sold me a ship so I can at least support the farm financially. The work still needs to be done, though. My father helps, but the two of us aren’t enough. Ruudde offered magic or servants as aid. Magic! I refused. It’d only cause more floods.” Olym took another patty from the central dish.
“I understand.” Cilla glanced at Amara with an apology in her eyes.
Acknowledging that look meant accepting or rejecting it, and Amara didn’t want to do either. She continued to cut her patties into pieces, smaller and smaller, then mixing them into the sauce to make them easier to eat. She needed Maart here. He should sit beside her, his leg touching hers in understanding, his freckled cheeks scrunching up.
He would be so happy to know she’d run.
“The ministers force us all into situations we don’t want to be in.” Cilla’s voice took on a harsh edge. “I hope to change what I can.”
“Even their airtrains cause problems!” Olym said. “The numediks work well—the ministers are smart, I’ll give them that—and at least the trains are non-magical, but they scare the wildlife. It’s causing all sorts of trouble …”
She went into detail, discussing how the trains worked and how they affected deer and boar and undergrowth, beaming at every interested nod of Cilla’s, and Amara ate stubbornly on.
The next morning, Olym expected Amara to attend to Cilla’s bath while she and her servants worked to repair the storm’s damage to the farm. Amara heated bathwater, crouching by lit coals with Cilla hovering over her.
“Do you want other help?” Amara pulled herself up by the tub. If Cilla finished quickly, Amara would have a chance to clean up, as well, before they returned to the ship.
Cilla eyed the tub as if steeling herself. “No. What I want is …” A short laugh escaped her. “Actually, I’m afraid to say what I want, because you might give it to me. Why are you pretending nothing happened?”
Amara hesitated. What was it Cilla refused to say she wanted? For Amara to treat Cilla as she’d treated Maart? She hunted for an answer Cilla would accept and ended up settling on, “I didn’t kiss you because you wanted me to.”
“Then why are you so damn distant?”
“Because what if I anger you?” Amara wanted to turn away, to keep her hands still, but they burst into movement. “I’m not your pet. I’m not different. I’m a servant like all those who don’t get to sit at your table. And for a servant, kissing you is dangerous, talking to you is dangerous, and not doing either is dangerous, too. And seeing you unhappy? Like now? That terrifies me. Because it’s my fault.” She jabbed at herself with angry fingers. She ought to stop talking. She really ought to stop. “That means—that means if you’re looking for someone to blame, or if you change your mind—”
“I’m not going to change my mind,” Cilla insisted.
“But you could!” No turning back. Her hands moved too fast and jerkily. She was shouting. “You can’t dangle an axe over someone’s head and promise you won’t drop it and then everything is fine!”
Cilla stood by the bathtub. She’d already dropped her topscarf. Her chest was heaving, her nostrils flaring. “I see. You’re right.” Her mouth opened and shut again. Her eyes gleamed. “I’m sorry about … did you want me to do anything about the servants?”
“It’s just—you didn’t even notice them.”
Cilla nodded stiffly.
“I did want to kiss you,” Amara said, suddenly deflated.
“But it’s not that simple.” Cilla echoed Amara’s earlier words. “I’m sorry.”
Amara’s hands stayed by her sides.
“I’m trying.” It looked as if Cilla would say more. Instead, she bowed her head and slowly pulled at her winterwear’s lacing. Amara whirled toward the window before she saw anything she shouldn’t. Her hearing was harder to tune out. Cilla’s wear hit the ground with a flutter, and her feet went from padding on smooth tiles to hugging the fox skin by the tub. Next came the clear sloshing of the water.
Amara stared at the curtains in front of her and unwillingly imagined ample skin, muscles and flesh and spine forming glistening dips and creases. Amara wondered what Cilla’s skin felt like in the water. If she would smile—cocky or pleased or self-conscious, because Amara loved all those smiles—if Amara turned and leaned in to kiss her again … This time, Cilla wouldn’t taste like fennel. She’d taste like duck and spiced rootpatties and soapsuds.